


somewhere in between the beginning and the end

by secondsandhours



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Pre-Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., Tumblr Prompt, i imagine they separated for awhile before they decided to divorce, pre-divorce, this is sad oops, which is how you got this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 18:21:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3660456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondsandhours/pseuds/secondsandhours
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They meet in a bar, and they say goodbye in a bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	somewhere in between the beginning and the end

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leofjtz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leofjtz/gifts).



> For my Rach Bird, who asked for Lancebobbi + "Wanna dance?" and got this instead. I'm fairly certain this isn't what you wanted.
> 
> All mistakes are my own. It's been awhile so I'm a little rusty.

Franny's is unusually empty for midnight on a Saturday. There's only one bartender on duty, and nothing but a few random customers scattered around the bar. The music is twangy and old, sounding like Conway or George or Vince. Lance sits at the bar, sipping at a Cuba Libre and tracing his fingers on the smooth, damp cherry wood finishing of the countertop.

He's got a solid buzz going on. His limbs feel warm and thick and his head feels fuzzy and clear at the same time. If she doesn't hurry up and get to Franny's soon, he might get a little too drunk for their meeting to be any type of serious.

God knows how many conversations he's ruined by being too drunk to take it seriously.

The second hand on the clock hanging on the wall makes another round. Midnight becomes 12:10, 12:10 becomes 12:45, and before he knows it one o'clock is rolling around and she's still not there.

He waits another five minutes and then gives up, tossing a wad of bills on the counter next to his glass (empty, yet again). And then suddenly she's there, her hands sliding over his shoulders and her lips brushing the shell of his ear as she whispers.

"Hey, stranger," she says. "Wanna dance?"

He spins around to look at her. Her hair is loose and wavy around her shoulders, and the dim orange lighting from behind the bar sets the strands of gold ablaze. She smiles softly, warmly, and holds one slender hand out to him.

He takes it, because he doesn't have a choice.

He never has a choice when it comes to her.

She leads him to the empty dance floor and moves into him, pressing her chest firmly against his and draping her arms lazily around his neck. His hands find their spot on her hips, and it's perfect. Nothing about them is perfect, save for the way Lance's hands fit against her body.

"I didn't think you were coming," he murmurs.

She starts to sway them in time with the music, something soft and sad. It reminds him of a lullaby. It's an unusual music selection for a bar, and it makes him think far too much of their situation.

"Of course I came, Hunter. I told you I would."

"We tell each other a lot of things, Bob," he says sadly. "Doesn't mean we mean them."

"I meant this." Her voice is sharp. "I meant this, and I showed up, and if you just want to pick a fight, Hunter, then-"

He cuts her off quickly, before this can turn into something neither of them wants it to be. "I'm not trying to fight you, Bobbi. I'm not. Let's just dance."

He can tell by the look on her face that she's still hurt by his words. They sounded more like an accusation than an observation, he admits, but that doesn't make them any less true. They've built a lot of their life together on saying things they don't mean.

He moves one of his hands from her waist to her hair and pulls her closer to him, until there's nothing separating them but the clothes they're wearing. He buries his nose in the spot where her shoulder meets her neck and takes a deep breath. She smells like his sheets used to; cheap citrus body wash and her natural scent. He closes his eyes and pays attention to every detail of them in this moment. Her nails pressing into his shoulder blade through his shirt. Her feet bumping into his every few steps. Her hair brushing the side of his face, silky and soft. The warm sliver of skin he can feel above her jeans where her shirt has ridden up. Her breathing, deep and slow, pressing her breasts against his chest every time she inhales.

He misses the time in his life when he got to feel her this way every day.

"Lance," she says, and it sounds like a question. He opens his eyes and lifts his head. Her eyes are brimming with tears and it breaks his heart but he gets it.

"This isn't working, is it?" she asks. It's barely a whisper. And he knows she's right and he knows they can't fix this, not this time, but he doesn't want to admit it. He doesn't want to admit that he can't trust her anymore, or that he's resigned too far into himself for this to ever go back to the way it was. He doesn't want to admit that this might be their last dance together, in this saloon, where they had their first.

He shakes his head. _Let's keep working on it_ , he wants to say. _We have to be able to salvage this._

"No, I don't think it is," is what comes out of his mouth.

Bobbi blinks, and the tears spill over. She wipes them away quickly with the back of her hand. She's looking everywhere in the room but at him when she nods.

This isn't what he called her for.

"Okay," she sniffs. "Okay. I should have guessed. Too much has happened between us, so I shouldn't be surprised. I guess I just thought...that maybe..."

He knows. "We might have been able to move on from all of that," he finishes.

She nods again, just a jerk of her head. He pulls away from her, something he's gotten very good at doing, until he's only grasping her hand. He's not ready to let it go quite yet.

She takes a shaky breath. "I should go."

He looks down at their feet and then surges forward, pressing a kiss against her cheek, a little too hard and a little too fast, before he backs away completely. He can taste the salt from her tears on his tongue when he says "I'll see you around, Bob."

She starts to say something and then stops herself, pursing her lips. She turns and starts toward the exit and then stops again. She's still for a minute before she calls out over her shoulder.

"Don't die out there, okay?"

He can barely say "okay" before she's out the door, the tiny gold keychain - stamped _Franny's Saloon_ \- bouncing against her boot as she walks.

He goes back to the bar and orders another drink.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from "Bulletproof Weeks" by Matt Nathanson.


End file.
